


Only Geniuses Have Clever Names

by DrakonNightengale, The Incubus (DrakonNightengale)



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types, Eddsworld Fandom RPF
Genre: A/B/O - Freeform, A/B/O - Subversion, Body Shots, Brief Mentions of Pedophilia, Cannibalism, Cervix Penetration, Codependency, Cucking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Future Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Incoherency, Mentions of Vore, Multi, Other, Self Harm, Sex, Suicide Attempt, Uhhh I dunno man, hatefucking, implied/reference child abuse, kinkshaming, tying up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:08:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22224613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrakonNightengale/pseuds/DrakonNightengale, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrakonNightengale/pseuds/The%20Incubus
Summary: What is name, when a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet? - Romeo and Juliet, ShakespeareWell, if you're looking for a comprehensive story, look away. Not intended for the weak of heart.Tags updated as I go along.
Relationships: Drake Nightengale| Drake/Matt (Eddsworld), Drake | The_Resurrection_3D/Pat/Pau (Eddsworld), Drake | The_Resurrection_3D/Patryk/Paul (Eddsworld), Drakon Nightengale| Drake/Knife, Edd/Eduardo (Eddsworld), Edd/Tom (Eddsworld), Future Tom/Future Tord | Red Leader (Eddsworld), Future Tord | Red Leader (Eddsworld)/Future Matt, Matt/Tom (Eddsworld), Matt/Tord (Eddsworld), Patryck/Paul (Eddsworld), Tom/Tord (Eddsworld)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. Kentucky Fried Cannibalism/TomTord PFK

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [horseshoes daughter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20858483) by [Fuckboy Phoebus (The_Resurrection_3D)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Resurrection_3D/pseuds/Fuckboy%20Phoebus). 



> This is essentially a rip off of the concept for HD made by Drake, but my kind friend has encouraged me to write this for you. 
> 
> Warning: Cannibalism, Hatefucking, Gore, Self Harm

Tom looked up from his phone when the food was haphazardly thrown onto the table. The label glaringly read as KFC with the picture of Colonel staring up at him with that grin of suffering.

One could talk about how the poor man was essentially copyrighted to the point of being in a way enslaved, but who wants to read about that?

Instead the eyeless monster opens his mouth to give a comment, “Did you know in Canada it says KFC and PFK? Apparently it’s Poulet Frit Kentucky which literally is Chicken Fried Kentucky, and honestly I feel like that matches the ominous face coming from the packaging to stare upon us while he curses us from his grave?”

The horned devilish man stares for a moment before taking a deep breath, “Tom, how much have you had to drink?”

“Nothing, yet, my booze vanished when I fucked myself with the bottle.” They reach and both grab the same piece of chicken.

\--

Staring at the page I wonder if I should take the first step, and wonder if it’s possible to just vanish from existence. Then I realize nothing is gained from living in fear. After all, what’s the chances of meeting someone around your age, who shares your name, your adventurous humour that borders on clown behaviour and a reason to actually write for yourself again.

Or perhaps this is just a way to get out all the stupid bullshit running in my head because I’m nothing more than a talentless hack pretending to know what anything is in the world.

\--

They’re fighting now, a kiss that’s not loving but just a fight over the chicken. Sure they could have actually both given the piece up, but when Tom tried to eat it bone and all, Tord had enough.

Teeth clashed and cut open lips, tongues and gums as tongues tried to pull the drumstick from each other. Tord choking once or twice, forgetting the human realistically can’t fit that in their mouth. 

Tom decides to end it, chomping down on tongue, chicken flesh and bone, taking it all with him and swallowing it down with no hesitation.

Instead of looking in pain, Tord is flushed and panting.

The only words coming from an alcoholic who should be experiencing withdrawal, if his ass hadn’t of eaten the bottle when he shoved it up there to fuck.

\--

Coherency is for the weak, but yet even I don’t know where this is going. Personally, I give too much shits and yet I’ve come this far, time to go further.

I’d say I stole the idea from Drake, and Horseshoe’s Daughter, but that requires me to be able to read gore and cannibalism.

But I love horror stories, and am writing this bullshit.

Perhaps it’s a perverseness that hides within me, or perhaps it’s the rattling inside my brain.

Scissors could help me out, just dig them into my temple and slowly pull out the brain matter in my skull, save humanity from the lesser cruelty I could ever make them read.

Not the eye though. Eye trauma is too much, and who needs to fuck up an already damaged piece of equipment.

\--

Leading into sex isn’t easy, but taking chunks of meat out of your roommate you hatefuck from time to time, that was. Tom coughed and blood came up from the bone that jutted in his throat.

“Don’t you love being eaten alive? I guess communism means sharing even the meat from your bones.”

Tord could only gurgle before bringing Tom to another piece of his body, watching as his insides suddenly got another label instead.

Were intestines always that squishy?

Maybe this is the feeling Mister Sanders got when he was essentially stopped from making his own business? Cannibalized by those who you formerly enjoyed. Now hated and resented, for stealing your identity. Wonderful feelings of having yourself torn apart.

Would it matter, since the man’s dead and so is his objections. Otherwise people wouldn’t be eating at the megacorp or playing the dating simulator.

A small smack to his cheek brings Tord back from the brink, his mind suddenly flooded with the image of a monstrosity that was Tom’s half form. The bone was gone, blood dripped from his maw and he looked as indifferent as ever.

“Ambulance?”

“Let me die right here and now.” 

“Why?”

\--

Certainly not what I was expecting, brains on the floor and still being alive. But maybe it’s a fever dream brought upon myself as I’ve trapped myself in a prison of wanting to be loved for my writing and wanting something that fucks someone up for a few hours before they forget it even existed. 

Who would have known that cannibalism could be used for corporations destroying the bases they were ever built on because of greed and desire to profit off of idiot consumers.

I say as I ate KFC a couple days ago, or perhaps sooner, later? Concepts of time go out the window when you’re sleep deprived and driving yourself insane on a commission for less than minimum wage and over ten hours of work. 

\--

Tord was slipping again, oblivion taking him underneath the waters, and drowning him in the licking and ripping noises. Not of flesh, but of cloth.

Not being allowed to die was a sin, but how else was he supposed to be fucked. Thighbones crunched and broken, he was there to be used, and he wanted it, but he was denied being fucked to death.

Tom was a freak, but not a necrophile. No, that was any writer who decided to delve into this dangerous ship. After all, one could say it was like fate.

Perhaps later when more caffeine exists for writing, but for now maybe the end should come. Nothing climatic though.

“Next time. Fuck me until I die and cum into my corpse.” Tord mumbles as the blackness takes him.

\--

Character death, check. What did I want to write? Who knows this came from my KFC package, riding the highs of HD. Now I gotta shove all this brain matter back before maybe slitting my wrists.

Perhaps one could see into my psyche this way, but all they’d see is an abyss staring back. Not because I’m an enigma, but because there’s nothing to be found but an ever changing inky substance between my eyes. Perhaps that’s what a brain is. Or maybe this occurred from too much brain trauma.


	2. I don't know what you're expecting, but I bet it wasn't this/EddTom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Subversion of A/B/O, Edd/Tom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Really, only A/B/O mentions, and some death mentions, tame chapter

Edd watched Tom lying beneath him, panting hard, sweat dripping from his forehead, body heated like a furnace. The bigger man wasn’t fairing well himself. The cooling sweat down his back made him shiver as he kissed along his friend’s neck.

Not mate, not lover, just a good friend that they had sex together once in a while, gentle and kind sex full of platonic love. Bros giving each other metaphorical and literal handjobs depending on the day. Tugging the eleph-

\--

Hating myself for even trying to mention it I sigh. It’s not easy, subverting expectations. I mean, it’s A/B/O with Edd and Tom, two things are going to happen here. Both are predictable after all over 1,000,000 of these exist.

I reach for the scissors but they’re gone. Too bad, the water dripping was starting to get annoying, and so are these bandages I can’t reach.

\--

Tom was sucking him off now, three rounds was his limit, Edd’s was five. Alpha and omega, unmated- both were mateless and happy.

Tom’s tongue ran up the side of his cock, piercing dragging wonderfully as Edd gives a low moan.

It was wonderful, feeling serviced as he watched the cum drip from the other’s ass. Beautiful, amazing. Powerful, even as Tom makes him melt with the feeling of that pink muscle swirling over his head.

\--

“Ew god gross.” I mumble as I write the scene. Tongues made me uncomfortable most of the time, but describing oral or frenching? God damn gross. I never understood the appeal of having a germy, slimy thing touch me. If I wanted that on my genitals, I’d probably get play slime or something. Least that’s not a tongue.

Vision swimming I debate on messaging Drake to get out of this. As I’m dinged allowing me to know they messaged first. I could be distracted for hours, but otherwise I’m nowhere near so. After all, a friend is something nice to have but when your brainless, it’s easy to do plenty at once.

\--

Edd’s driving into Tom now, the shorter man’s beer belly jiggling as the rest of him has next to no fat. Edd joked it was all the sex, Tom insisted that he didn’t eat less than anyone else.

Anyone else usually mentioned alcohol wasn’t a food.

Whispers of puns and jokes ruin the mood, as Tom gives a playful smack on Edd’s chest, watching the skin ripple. Edd was a certified bear, without the facial hair, though his chest hair was abound.

When Edd cums inside Tom, there’s a breathless whisper. Soft and sweet from Edd, “and here’s where the alpha gets knotted.” Before pulling out, he gives a grin.

Tom rolls away from him with a groan. “Yeah yeah, you do this every time, the omega fucks the alpha and knots him, glad you don’t got one though, I gotta suck your dick again.”

“You say it’s your favourite part.”

“Only because you’re so short.”

“That’s the love rolls, Tommy.”

“Gross. Don’t.” But they’re both grinning and laughing.

\--

What was I even planning, it’s right here in front of me, A/B/O subversion. Did I do it? Would I even know?

Knocks come from my door, the water dripping happens faster, I’m sure there’s someone drowning out in the world or above the floor I’m in. Water keeps moving. Water drowns.

Right, last floor, last stop. But no, there’s smut to write, commissions to do, wonderful and amazing things caught by the world for three seconds only to fall into obscurity again.

Where to pick up? The end. Right, everything has to end, where’s the end?

\--

They got into the shower, Tom first since he had cum shot into his ass without a condom, and there’s no way he’s leaving that up there to rot. 

“So, you think Tord’s going to finally stop trying to watch us?” Edd asks with humour.

Tom chokes as water slips into his socket, and ow, that’s gotta hurt. “Well, no idea, but I never knew you were into omegaverse, Edd. Definitely didn’t pick you for someone to choose being an omega.”

Edd laughs and leans against the toilet, balls cold as hell while steam comes out from behind the curtain. “Well, an omega that dominates the alpha and has no need for suppressants or a mate, hell yeah. Could we find that anywhere? Hell no. Fuck, let dudes fuck without pregnancy, I read it mainly for the heat cycles.”

“You mean, you could just have some consensual drug fucking and it would be fine for you.” Tom came out, letting his friend into the shower.

“Nah, I think it’s just, like, you know… I want two men fucking each other in a society where it’s okay, while not being forced into feminine or masculine roles just cause one’s expected to take it up the ass. Stop making the skinny twink the omega and anyone big the alpha.”

“How much do you read of this stuff?”

“None, I just hear Tord’s rants over it all the time.”

\--

I sit back, send what I assume is a finished product to Drake, and I am sent back a question, which perplexes me at first, I sit and I ponder, then discover a diamond when I say yes.

Despite efforts made, as a brainless undying monstrosity, I have found the true answer, which fits to the subversion of subversion, said best by Drake himself.

“to make abo not shitty and rapey you basically have to change or downplay the actual abo aspects into irrelevancy” - The_Resurrection_3D

Which is the answer to everything I’ve written, in which none of it matters or could be considered true A/B/O and yet the finished glass of the product is as close as I can get. Two subversions. One swapping the expected roles of the subjects, and then subject matter.

But what does that matter when the pounding on my door demands I rewrite this or go somewhere less cozy. Fuck anything red, I’d rather go purple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what you expected out of this, but do not assume I'll deliver on any promise. Including things explicitly promised. Only exceptions are, this is sexual, this is violent, and this is not loved like a mother's child. It's a meal made by a college student who has no ingredients, didn't want to go shopping and has a thesis due in an hour as well as a final exam in two.


	3. Hold My Cuck, I'm Going In Dry/TomMatt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tord has them both, but they still got each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my boyfriend's cat who helped me.
> 
> Uhhh, sex? Mentions of prosthetics. Nothing I think is essentially needed to explain here.

Waking up from a dream is always a doozy, but when you live in a nightmare the two haze together. 

Perhaps writing against the script was a bad idea, perhaps criticism isn’t needed.

But when did I ever listen to the rules? I burned his book and request, sat amongst the crackle of flames.

But the drips won’t stop. Nothing sits before me but an old dinosaur of a computer. That’s okay. I continue to write at the behest of cruelty.

But never what’s actually wanted.

\--

Lying on the bed, a red ribbon ran over their naked forms, binding them together. Matt splayed kissed upon Tom’s body, tongue licking soft lips, and some of the gloss from them as glittery purple stuck to alabaster skin. A blue eye twinkled as their lips met, and Matt drowned in the sound of Tom’s moans.

They danced upon the sheets writhing together, embraced by the ribbon of lust, engaging in the tango known as intercourse. One could watch on in adoration and see their embrace.

Sweet, gentle and slow, a waltz drawn out as they swapped, Matt on the bottom, 

\--

I am interrupted by my boyfriend’s cat, trying to destroy the home we have. Vying for attention and love, finally invited on my lap.

She’s cold like the space we inhabit, likely seeking warmth from me as usual. It’s hard to type one handed while a cat drives her claws into your tit.

I take the time to love and care for her before going back to my five fingered typing. Not in the usual sense. I use about five fingers from each hand and occasionally six. Altogether that is.

Where was I? Oh yeah they swapped positions.

\--

What was this, fucking upon the bed, in red satin sheets, surrounded by a painting made our of reds. The room was not their own, and as they entangled themselves more in the ribbon, staining the bed with off white as they continue to love one another, they’re quite happy together.

Until they tug a little too hard on the ribbon and earn a grunt from the onlooker.

There’s a third unmentioned party in the room, tied up in ribbon and missing an arm and eye.

\--

This feline is so distracting, she’s cucking my cucking and quite frankly I think that’s poetic as she falls asleep in my lap against my raised legs.

She’s a little big and heavy to just fall asleep there though, 

However can I finish cucking Red Leader again?

\--

As mentioned before, while the two fuck, avoiding mentioning or looking to the onlooker. 

Tord, or Red Leader as he had taken to naming himself, was tied down to a chair, with red ribbon, devoid of his robotic arm as he was forced to watch as his lovers fucked each other before him.

Normally they were fighting for his attention, trying to be good just to up the other and get into his bed- or at least how his imagination plays it out typically.

So it was strange when they suggested something new. From there it evolved into servicing him together- and man he did not mind it.

Today they wanted something new again, and he agreed. This was not what he had in mind. Onlooking as his lovers fucked each other and he was tied up forced to watch unless he wanted to play into a little bit of choking. His boner was straining against the confines of his pants and he watched and whined as Tom decided to ride Matt like tonight was their last night together.

It hurt his soul to be so jealous and yet so okay with this. One word would have him free, as he was the su--

\--

It’s just so hard to finish this. Finding how to do this, and even as I’m cucking Red twice there seems to be no end to the cat’s demands of love. So I spoil her and Love her. It seems the cuckening of Red Leader will have to wait.  
Or perhaps, his story ends here. I’ll have cucked him more.

I put the laptop away, send off the chapter in its final goodbyes and enjoy the dim light offered by the rising sun.

Maybe I’ll be forgiven for forgetting how they look, as Matt watches me through the door with my food. Maybe, it’s time to leave this behind for something better.

Maybe I’ll go insane from the dripping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote me until the end of my days, I love how I got to say it was poetic I was kept from writing this by a very needy and cold kitty.
> 
> Jesus christ Future isn't a word to me anymore. It looks so fake.


	4. This Was Supposed to be Me X Matt, But this was more fun//Drake(HD)PaulPat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drake gets fucked for hours, I get to reevaluate my life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cervix Pen, Clownery
> 
> Raw fish consumption

A fish is thrown at my face, making a nice wet slap before it drops into my lap. I blink and look up to see Matt entering and picking up the fish. 

“Tord told me to bring you some sushi, but there’s no one who can make it so I brought a fresh fish instead? Why sushi?” The ginger sounded confused and a little bored, Looking at me with concerned blue eyes.

I take the plastic knife and rip into the fish, eating chunks. Tastes freshly caught, won’t kill me. Though by the disgusted look on Matt’s face I probably should have waited. When I’m done, the entire carcass is a mess that I throw into the growing pile in my corner. Mostly lollipop wrappers. 

“Assignment?”

“Nothing but a letter from your friend.”

I open the letter, and smile at the contents. Of course he’d like this.

\--

Typically an opening scene in a story sets up the characters, sets up everything leading into the plot. But that’s hardly fun.

“You want me to what?” Pat blinked and stared down at Drake, taking off his glasses.

“Penetrate my cervix as Paul fucks me.” Drake grinned and leaned on his desk. 

“Beyond the fact that’s impossible, why me?” 

“You literally drowned me last week, you want to talk about impossible? Talk about how we’re still talking. Plus, why not, it’s nice.”

Pat took a deep breath and turned to Paul, hoping for a sliver of salvation. Sex? That was fine. Cervix Penetration? What. The. Fuck.

“I already agreed.”

\--

Matt looks over my shoulder, curious to what I’m typing on the decrepit laptop given to me, and frowns. “Cervix penetration?”

“Yeah I know, right? Well, I mean we talked about it and I think vore is way better.”

He frowns more. “You’re a degenerate.”

“No, I’m a clown, and we have a hotel to prove it.”

“Oh… oh my god.”

I could tell he was done with my shit. 

\--

Pat was methodical in taking off Drake’s shirt, leaning in and giving a soft, almost loveless, kiss. 

Paul, tore Drake’s pant’s off. What was once clothes, was now ribbons on the floor.

“Wait, wait. Pat first.” Drake shifted and smiled. Pat immediately knew something was up, but kept his cool and gave only a disappointed sigh. 

“Right. Well..” He cocked his head and pulled Drake right into his lap, then unbuttoned himself.

“Why am I the only one who is going to be naked?”

“Because we don’t need to be to have sex.” That was the only warning as he plunged into the other. Slipping past the first set of rings with ease, and then into another set. It was like a hole within a hole. “What the-”

Drake moved up and down, before Pat could process anything, whispering in his ear, “just go with it.” Then he nipped at the man’s ear. A distraction.

\--

“You know, you’re writing porn about your friend, right?”

“Technically it’s reality, or well, as real as anything can be.”

“I… I didn’t need existential dread. Right so… it brings me back to, you know you’re writing porn, right?”

“Weeelllllll. I’m actually fulfilling a request of sexual favours for Pat and Drake, though neither knows about it.”

“It’s hardly a story though.”

“I never promised something good now did I?”  
\--

Drake was being bounced up and down, feeling the other piercing into his cervix and out. Like popping lollipops out of one’s mouth.

Paul took this time to cup Drake’s ass, and finger the hole, a caterpillar brow shooting up in confusion as he pulled out a napkin, leading into a chain.

Pat was distracted by fucking Drake to notice the shannanigans. 

Paul however, kept pulling out cloth after cloth, many of them being various colours. 

One after another, until Pat was ending and a confetti cannon blasted out of the ass.

Drake looked back laughing as Paul’s arms were covered in glittery plastic. 

“Care to explain?”

“I just… felt bloated, dunno.”

\--

“You can’t end it there, there’s.. Nothing.”

“Sure I can. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Matt rolls his eyes. “Pat’s going to kill you.”

“No, Paul’s going to kill me, noodle arms is just going to psychoanalyze me and then give me whatever Drake didn’t do.”

He goes to take the fish corpse and I hit him with a muffin. “No, mine.”

“It’s trash.”

“Like me!”

\--

They attempted three more times, Drake enjoying the fact he was penetrated to his cervix almost every thrust, and Paul losing faith in how every time he tried to do any ass play, he was met with a handkerchief.

By the end of it, he had so many, he started to use it to clean the sweat off his brow. “I feel cockblocked.”

“Why’s that?” Pat asked.

“I’m the only one who didn’t get their dick wet.”

“Don’t be jealous, maybe next time both of you can fuck my cervix.” Drake offered.

Pat, mid thrust, stopped, and pulled out. “I… Your clownery is outstanding.”

“Aww, come back next time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhh this was supposed to be me and Matt but I decided otherwise


	5. Cola Loser's But I Have Sensory Issues// ColaLosers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cola losers, Cola, Stolen from Resurrection_3D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my plagerism

What is boredom but the lack of something engaging for your mind. Most people can find something to do or even find solace in nice down time, but when you’re an autistic brainfuck it gets hard to constantly have everything never be enough stimulation until it’s the point of too much stimulation.

\--

Edd and Eduardo go in one house, bags full-

\-- 

The guinea pig my boyfriend owns drives me silly sometimes. I can’t stand it. The never ending silence creeping up on me can drive a man mad, but was I ever sane to begin with.

I don’t know how anyone can live like this.

\--

Edd’s midway taking off his shirt, man tits sagging worse than an old aunts, and stretch marks scattered like an artist lazily slapping details on a landscape they didn’t care for. 

“What are we even doing?”

“Body shots.” Eduardo’s pulling out the diet and non-diet cola. Is this a bet gone wrong or a love affair. What could be seen between the two aggressive rivals that once nearly killed each other and destroyed half the city.

\--

I reread my work and wonder how close this is to Drake’s writing, am I going through another copycat phase?

The groan of my computer is too loud for my ears, it hurts. 

The inability to keep on one track of mind isn’t exclusive to autism but god knows I can’t help it.

\--

“Couldn’t you just shove the glass into your ass? I mean it’s the only part of you that’ll hold it.” Edd commented looking Eduardo over. Himself covered in the sticky fructose liquid, minus anything that makes it even remotely cola as an attempt to make it healthier.

The only upside is diabetics can consume it.

Eduardo stares at Edd as if he was the dumbest shit on the block. “No, Edd. If I did that, you’d be rushing me to the hospital so they can pick shards of glass out of my ass. I’m just going to place your glass between your tits.”

“This seems one sided.”

“You’re the one who wanted the cock, loser.”

\--

Conceivably I don’t hate cola losers, I don’t hate any particular ship, but I’m being driven insane due to my fucked up brain causing me distress and my desire to do anything creative.

After all isn’t the point of artwork to be something you can create.

I mean cheap shots at myself aside there’s not much content to be had. Creatively they’re going to drink overly dense syrup marketed as an actual conceivable drink. They’re going to fuck with Eduardo drilling Edd’s plump ass before collapsing, likely going back and forth in insults as they each open a can of the wrong cola.

Surely the market needs something better. Surely there’s not a lack of two dudes who seemingly hate each other and constantly talk shit, fucking and doing inane things.

I mean, look at how prominent TomTord is, in its whole, and how popular it is to soak the two in substances.

At least I can celebrate the fact I never would want to create Dear Starboy.

Instead I’ll create something worse.

Let’s spice things up.

\--

Eduardo licks some of the cola off and gags. “You mixed yours in with mine.”

“Well sorry, I didn’t realize I wasn’t supposed to. Who Cola’d figured that out anyways.”

“I… You’re so irritating sometimes.”

Keep getting riles up, You’ll POP a vessel.”

“I’m… Nope.” Eduardo pushes Edd onto the couch. Their four hours turned into one. He dumped an entire bottle of the liquid onto the man and then fucked him silly using the corn syrup as a lube.

It goes great until Matt walks in and causes them both to cum, Eduardo balls deep in Edd forgetting the condom, and Edd’s cock having faced the hispanic’s face.

Matt didn’t come out of his room for a week, and when he did, he burned the couch in front of the pair with a glaring look as Tom asked what happened in confusion.

\--

Well, here, it’s done. I have written cola losers. Kind of. I think I much prefer eating my own body as a way of dealing with the bad noises and not having any sound but things that make me want to kill myself going on.

One could say there’s a euphanism for the lack of content being my own lack of ability to create with any definition or consistancy, leading to the downwards spiral of self-loathing and procrastination eventually coming to me writing maybe once in a blue moon.

Perhaps the lack of Edd being a muse comes from me needing to write a chapter about him next that involves me brutally harming characters and picking out a frame of reference.

Perhaps this is an allusion to the idea that art is deeply personal and when you create without some form of true connection you’ll end up with cringe.

That’s all lies, if you think my work comes with any hidden meaning, I’ll net you know I’m not even in college yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why're you even reading this man


	6. Death to The Author or The Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes... giving up is better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is bittersweet, a relationship vagued, but the warnings are;
> 
> Abusive Relationship, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied Rape/Non-Con, Co-Dependent Relationships, Serious Content, Death, Suicide, Self Harm, Implied/Referenced Therapy, Pedophilia (Mentioned in the Non-Character sections), Alcohol, Drugs
> 
> It’s implied heavily in the text that Tom is forcing this relationship dynamic on Tord and needs him to validate his own self hatred. The cycle continues over and over.
> 
> The series of events end when Tord stops it.

Normally when I sit down and think about my work, I am introspective. I sit down and think, “what do I want to come from this, what is my end goal?”

I’ve never really given thought to why I needed to do this.

—

Tom strummed his bass, turning it gently as if the strings would snap like the frayed wires in his head wanted to. Everything was nearing its end as everything crumbled around him. What happened to the house? His ex blew it up.

—

Maybe it comes from the perfectionist in me who cries and gives up art every other week because the validation isn’t enough. Maybe it comes from pursuing five careers not involving my passion because I’m never good enough.

Perhaps my projection comes from that ideal.

—

Tom Tore his room apart, watching paper fly everywhere. Of course he never could make it, nothing was important enough to actually become anything more than a pipe dream. A musician that is the son of a bowling ball and pineapple? Preposterous. Nothing more than childish ideology hidden under the vague idea he’ll be anything more than a freak of nature wearing a human skin. If no one wanted him or needed him, what was his life? After all he only lived because his friends forced him into rehab.

—

Honestly. I just came back from reading a friend’s work. Something heavy and truly one of my favourite works he did, and as I sit there looking at our DMs ranging from us joking about killing each other to us talking in depth about necrophilia, shipping or what it means to even have angst as a subject, I feel miles away.

—

Time is a construct, which is why when he met Tord he couldn’t recall how old he was, just that the new kid was interesting. It wasn’t until he got older that he realized what an idiot he had ever been on the subject. Tord wasn’t interesting, he was just a boring freak, which is why when the nails bit in deeper than the insults. Tom had to stop the relationship.

—

I never learned how to connect with other people. It wasn’t the autism, I don’t think anything truly could have been blamed on my mental illness.

— 

One would think that someone obsessed with hentai would be more fucked up in the bedroom, and when hatefucking they were. It was amazing and delicious and the best way to relieve pent up aggression and stress. Until that flame of hate dies. Poetically, Tord ended it with the but end of his gun. Then Tom shot him down ten years later.

—

When you can name every kid in your class since grade school and know both the grades above and below you, maybe things are different. But backwaters, oilfield Alberta only left a stain I’ll never clear out.

— 

They say you never forget a face, it stays in your dreams and recreates itself over and over again. But Tom knows he’s never seen this face before, the scars on Tord look so real as he drowns himself in alcohol and anti-depressants. Maybe today it’ll work.

—

Typing things has always ranged from hating every second to never putting it down. My boyfriend says it’s the ADHD but my brain tells me it’s because I’ve lost the old ideas that were once special to me.

—

Susan sits, untouched amongst the ashes of his stuff. He remembers once how Edd found ruins and they all explored it until death. “In your face Tord.” He bellows as he throws a vodka bottle at a picture too worn out to even tell who it ever was past the warm colour palette.

—

Sometimes it dawns on me how adverse and strange my childhood was. If I asked others to share in the idea of getting rid of every single creative piece they’ve ever done I think they’d look at my second head with questions.

—

Tom’s step-father was stricter than Tord could ever get, the belt a lot harsher on his back. 

Tord suggests therapy. Tom suggests he shut the fuck up and beat his ass before their roles flip.

—

I joke I grew up under a rock, to hide my shame of never knowing a joke or a meme and what makes it good, I laugh because they do, I fall into whatever someone wants of me.

—

Tom can’t remember when he went out without a word, searching for that same feeling he got before the numbness kicked in. Or where he got the idea Tord had a metal arm and was pressing him down into a chair in front of water. Five years and the man still hated facial hair. Maybe that’s why Tom kept shaving.

—

Being genuine has never been a strong suit. I can’t remember where I’ve learned this, it is muddled in my brain with everything else I’ve learned from books and my mother. But once I learned about someone having many faces because they’re too afraid to face themselves.

— 

A drunken dream to never be remembered, that’s how Tom sees it as he’s crying and begging for forgiveness, he doesn’t want someone dead forever. He doesn’t like the looks Edd and Matt give him when he goes over and they ask if he’s seeing “him” again. They all know who he is. The name left a foul taste on his tongue.

—

I wonder what it’s like if I finally remove the masks.

—

Tom tries something stupid and tries to suck the dream’s dick, but like fifteen years ago, he’s denied with a slap and a harsh word. Never when drunk, that was the rule. Always sober. Too bad Tord never knew when he was clean.

—

To clarify I’m not hiding myself because I’m manipulative. Rather, I have no personality on my own. I cope via social interaction to build who I am, and I’m never the same person for different people. I range from being sexual and pushing boundaries to being a Hard ass and being sex repulsed.

— 

Tom doesn’t listen as he pressed his illusion down and shivers against him. Dozens of lovers and yet he had his longest dry spell yet. He just wants to feel something more than the gnawing ache in his chest, the pressure to be used. It was an excuse. Something to blame his issues on other than being fucked in the head. After all trauma can only take you so far,

—

I genuinely don’t know who I am because outside of that I drown myself in media.

— 

Tom wakes up with the biggest headache in the world and a torn cheek, he's been getting a lot of those lately. After being blackout drunk he has no idea what truly happened but chalks it up to a bar fight. The ache in his chest doesn’t go away.

—

Once my therapist said I was so good at introspection I was doing her job for her. She then went on to tell me not to call my trauma rape.

— 

Tom never admits it, but he always returns to that scene hoping to see something different, something changed, he just hopes against all odds someone will be there. No one is.

—

Imposter syndrome is something I’ve heard lots. You’re not good enough, you don’t actually have this thing, you’ve never been good. In order to have it, you first must be actively actually that thing. Good thing I never made it.

—

It surprises Tom when one night during his dreams of the violence and heat, caring words are spoken to him. The cool metal hand rubbing at his side and placating him, making sure he knew where he was and if he was actually having fun. The cigar smoke was suffocating.

—

I started this series in hopes that writing like my friend would make me better, make a difference. He told me, “just don’t care, and just write, it’ll help” and yet that’s all I ever did, was a cheap imitation of him as I glare at the screen and type this out I wonder when the feeling of guilt and resentment will fade.

—

Tom never expected him to actually be alive, and to always be there to comfort him. The previous resentment forgiven over seeing his pathe- his guilt and sorrow. An offer to join for coffee soon becomes an offer for the army, and Tom’s agreeing because he knows the pain that will befall him.

—

I’ve never edited shit, but I’ve been an editor and beta reader. At fourteen I read a noncon fic of Nyotalia Lithuania and Poland. I’ve recently reread it and wondered what fourteen year old me even knew then. After all, what could a child know. I look in the mirror and nothing has changed.

—

Tord gets sick of his shit after a week. Constantly starting fights, breaking rules and trying to be beaten up. He doesn’t give Tom a choice this time, it’s therapy or Edd and Matt. Tom doesn’t hesitate to pick the former, his shame making him stop for the latter and feel his sinking gut twist.

—

Drake is my name. I am Drake. I tell myself this as I get shit on for my name sounding like a rapper. Dragon. My name is Dragon. I chose it because I wanted to be free of my parents, I look at the chains still holding me down.

—

Tom constantly brings his shit into the relationship, making it about him and what happened, rather than what is, and can’t be satisfied with anything else but what makes Tord wish he was dead.

—

None of this is written separately. I’ve written all the personal bits first. I don’t know the story surrounding it and I’m refusing to plan it. I know it’ll be something with Tom and likely with Tord. After all, my ex really enjoyed that.

—

Tord is so tired, he wants to be released from this, and he says so as he looks at Tom who is ignoring him for another bottle of booze, they’re so far into the rebellion and Tom keeps chewing through the therapists. You can’t keep doing this, he says. Tom’s reply shocks no one, I know.

—

I’ve never healed nor recovered from my trauma, I realize as I stare at my Twitter threads. Bless my friend for having such eye opening takes sometimes. His words were far better, but if I click off I’ll lose my nerve and never publish this. 

—

Tom doesn’t change, the relationship gets worse and Tord tries to end it. It ends with Tom in the bathtub, wrists slit apart as he tries to rid the world of his presence. Tord stares down at him, you can’t keep doing this. This time his voice quakes and eyes water.

—

So his words boiled down to, if you say rape into a microphone you’ll win awards. And he went on to explain how he lost a contest to someone with just that premise. The joke was I could vague about my trauma and win rewards for it because it’s so intrinsically deep. Leading up to me saying with clarity, “trauma is immeasurable and thus can’t be deep”. These words are true, trauma is such a fluctuating thing it’s not deep it’s just… a thing. 

—

Tom finally sits down and tries, he really does. But after the fiftieth why, he slams the door in the therapists face and vents to Tord. The latter snaps and smacks him hard and they’re fighting and screaming and when Tom goes in for a kiss, Tord breaks down and leaves the base for a few months. Tom attempts Fine times when he’s gone.

—

Symbolism was always fucked up, the curtain is blue because the author liked blue. Yet something romantic sits in symbolism. The ways one can choose their words has such an emotional impact, it might as well be its own reward for writing. We as humans look for reason in everything, and thus we lose what’s actually important, our very lives must be defined by symbolism. I say as I write this at 2:02 am drinking a monster that tastes too much like sour apple for me to like it, and worried my friend hates me because I’m an insecure piece of shit.

—

Dancing around the subject, Tord suggests Tom leave the base. Get something more. Try his hand as old hobbies. The words hang in the air unspoken, leave and don’t come back. Tom does just that. Twenty five years and they’re separated for good this time, neither of them having the energy to deal with the other.

—

Depth isn’t a measurement, nor is it actively important. Not everything needs an underlying message on why something is or isn’t okay. And the curtains can just be blue, yet recognizing symbolism is important too, sometimes the red eyes mean more than just edginess of a thirteen year old. Sometimes they learned from their peers what is cool.

—

Tom gets a letter to Tord’s wedding, invited to be a guest as Tord wants to tell him something important. It’s torn to shreds like his arms and wrists as he drinks himself into a stupor, thinking of how it’s strange the apparition hasn’t appeared before him ever again. He missed that Tord, the fake love and adoration felt real for a moment and made him less likely to do more than cut.

—

I’ve always stepped back from my trauma. Thinking to leverage it later. And fuck, maybe if I’m actually ever good at an essay I will by saying how fucked up it is to even try and act like trauma is anything but trauma. But first I’d need to actually be good at writing.

—

Tom gets another letter, to a banquet held by the Red Army. Attendance required as a citizen of Red’s World. Unlike what the other invitations are, he doesn’t get a plus one. Even Tord isn’t stupid enough to think Tom made any friends recently, and Tom certainly doesn’t put up an act to be a offended.

—

Sometimes I look at myself and I go, “why do you exist?” The answer is resoundingly, because my mother refused to abort.

—

After arriving, Tord urges Tom to therapy. They end up in bed again after thirty years. Tord’s sobbing afterwards and clutching his chest.

—

I’ve been careful to never cross a line since 2018. Readable, consumeable, never showing I’m even close to being pro-ship because how dare I want something close to my trauma as carthesis. It’s okay. I’ve been called a pedophile and abuser enough times when I was going through it I think I’m over it.

—

They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die, and you relive every moment before the point of death to allow you to reflect. Tom stands over Tord’s grave, wondering if there was anything he regretted. Thinking to how he shot himself in the head, he supposed so.

—

I have a novel I can’t even publish, which would gloss over the rape of a child at four years old. I’ve been told, “just cut it” but it’s symbolically important in a society where this rape is socially acceptable. It’s also what I feel about my own at that age.

—

The numbness of losing such a horrible person in his life gets him to seriously seek therapy and sit down, it’s long and hard, and after fifteen minutes Tom is bawling and begging for a redo.

—

I’m not even going to pretend someone will want to read this. I know they won’t. But I’m still writing this. I’ve talked about symbolism and how it’s useless but important. This story’s title is symbolic. I’m releasing information about myself, nothing to get me Doxxed but enough that someone close to me would know it was me.

—

A world like his, you stumble on quite some shit, and Tom finds a genie. The first two wishes cause Tom the most agony and the most pleasure as requested. The third is a redo of his entire life, and that maybe he could listen to Tord more this time.

—

This story’s title is literal in a figurative sense. Weird Al and half the Internet would kill me over that statement but besides that. I’m planning to write what I want. Without a care. I get cancelled or my friends leave me, then at least I’m not held back by being scared. 

—

Tom sits in his apartment, drinking. Wondering why he’s thinking of a scarred face and a comforting metal arm. Haunted eyes that beg for release as concern is etched into an old weary face.

—

This story also ends and doesn’t end here. I’m ending this part of the series. I don’t like the title, I don’t like the concept. I stole this from Drake, even if nothing here even seems closely plagiarized I can admit that this is theft by behaviour alone. I want to make a joke fic, filled with symbolism and commentary, but I want it to come from me and not from a sense of trying to impress that cool friend down the block.

—

When Tord comes to check in on Tom, he’s surprised to see him working up the nerve to do everything, the words ring true.

“We’re bad for each other.”

“Everyone is.”

“I’m in therapy.”

“So am I.”

“Is it working.”

“Fuck no.”

They share a cigarette and a drink, knowing the next day any progress will be lost.

—

I have mutuals who are popular. People who have always complimented me on my work and writing. It’s not that it’s not enough. I just feel like a let down as I hide the dozens of rape fic I’ve ever consumed to deal with my sexual trauma and intrusive thoughts that claw at my throat and head until I have no choice but to give in and find an outlet.

—

The more they interact as friends, the easier it is to trust each other, the better they recover together. Tom jokingly calls it trauma-bonded and Tord smacks him so hard, both of them are worried on how that’ll impact them.

—

Going back, I’m not even sure if you’d remember this, but in passing I’ve mentioned imposter syndrome. You can’t fake being something you aren’t. I’m not a victim or survivor. Not in my mind, what I went through will never be enough. Not because I’m an imposter, but because I’ll never measure up to be a perfect victim and survivor implies it could have killed me. No. I’m traumatized. There’s no beauty or ugliness in that term. It just is. After all, it happened. Objectively something can not be more than just it is.

—

Tom’s fine, Tord’s not. It takes five months to undo the damage from the smack, and five more to even address it. Neither of them share their therapy or progress, but both of them know Tord is struggling more. 

Tom wishes for the taste of the belt on his back again and hopes he’ll be granted that wish once more,

—

I’m not trying to be fake deep. I don’t care. Honestly the deepest I’ll ever get is thinking how nice it would be to make social change by actively being a good person. And then scrapping the idea because no matter how hard you work as social change, society needs to be willing to meet you halfway. If my mom can’t recognize I have autism, then I’m not expecting the world to try and understand me.

—

They never go past a slight bro hug, and when Tord asks Tom to go to his wedding, he agrees, being there alongside his other friends to wish Tord happiness. Tom feels a pang of hurt seeing them happily together,

—

In the end, being yourself, or not, doesn’t change what you do. I’m not defined by what happened to me, I’m defined on what I do and what I want to do. I’m a singer, I’m a writer, I’m an LGBT+ and Mental Health supporter.

—

When Tom stands over Tord’s grave, set due to suicide, he asks himself what he did wrong. Everything was perfect this time, he did everything right so why didn’t they end up together. He looks for a redo, searching harder for it, he needs it,

—

I’m Drake. I’m nothing less than myself.

—

Tord stands over Tom’s grave. Sharing a bit of his whiskey as the ice cracks from the heat. Suicide over killing Tord. It should be expected.

Tord accepts the death, closing his eyes, and feeling blame well up, but shaking his head. He tried his best, but he’s not a therapist, and Tom’s beyond his help.

He regrets having done so little, but no matter how many times you fantasize about being happy, it’s not going to suddenly happen just through wishing.

Without wanting change and working beyond just pleasing someone else, you’ll never recover.

Tord wished he said those words instead of anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s a ride. I don’t know how much is there but I’m at 30%. This marks the end of this story. It’s... disappointing but honestly it needed to happen. 
> 
> I’m not lying when I say I hate this. I hated everything here. Because it was something with little effort, with nothing of me and everything of someone else.
> 
> I created this as a way to cope with writer’s block and it gave me worse because a story I latched more to became more popular.
> 
> I’m going to do my own spin, and not like this. Not this talking through the text and the characters.
> 
> Not ending up by letting everyone down on what sense of character I was.
> 
> No it’s me. And actively I’ve made it. Horrors of Life is a project I should give attention to, but I’m also going to turn Bloodied Frenzy into a sequel series.
> 
> It’ll be mine, and while HD has an impact- I’ll never say it isn’t a big thing for me- I think I want to try something more me and less someone I admire.
> 
> Maybe it’ll address my inadequacy as a writer, maybe not.
> 
> I hope this gave you some semblance of how I feel. Criticize away for everything but the Tom/Tord in this.
> 
> It... doesn’t work otherwise. You could change them up, but the point was an abusive bullshit relationship built around The End and what occurred in my real life.
> 
> See you next time.

**Author's Note:**

> What is revision? What is Coherency?
> 
> What is a Canadian needing to look up the words for KFC in French because he doesn't fucking know. Congrats. You've made it through this hellhole. Hope to see you another time


End file.
